The Storm

Untitled Part 7

My dad follows me out of the car, dreading to continue emptying the house of the remains of what once used to decorate my basement. I follow him to the side door, stepping over the pieces of Lego that had found their way out of my brothers' room and wedged themselves into my front lawn. We go down the stairs, my dad warning me to be very careful, for the stairs are not as sturdy as they once used to be. I reach the last step and slowly move into the main room of my depressing basement, so desperately trying to cling onto all the happy memories that had taken place here. 

The smell of the beach is so clear, even though I am indoors, and the beach was a few blocks away from where I am standing. It isn't a nice beach smell either, it is the smell of rotten fish and a stench of seaweed that lingers with you. 

I see my mom's wedding dress on the floor of the guest room, which is odd because it was not in the guest room a month ago, and it was most definitely not brown and torn. I make my way to my brothers' room, stepping over loose, torn photographs that once smiled up at me from their now-broken picture frames. 

I enter his room, seeing all his books that once fed his imagination now coating his floor like a carpet. I think about how this could have been me, if I had moved to the basement like I so desperately wanted to. My brother doesn't own anything from before the hurricane, nothing survived. His clothes, new. His shoes, new. His books and furniture, new. 

The only thing still standing in my basement is a balloon from my bat mitzvah, still full of helium from my party that had taken place the weekend before, hovering above all the debris that now covers my basement floor.

I take one more look around, still trying to process all of the destruction, promising myself that I would never forget it. I climb up the stairs and walk out of the side door, carefully closing it behind me and turning my back on my house, in Rockaway Beach, that was destroyed by Hurricane Sandy.